


many-splendored thing

by khirimochi (NekoAisu)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Moulin Rouge! Fusion, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Love songs, M/M, Moulin Rouge References, Musical References, Original Character(s), Romance, not really sure how to tag this aaaaaa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23780275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/khirimochi
Summary: Things like diamonds are attainable, but love? Impossible.
Relationships: Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	many-splendored thing

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone wants 'em:  
> [Z'ahir references](https://twitter.com/khirimochi/status/1252785133603692544?s=20)  
> [Farai references](https://twitter.com/khirimochi/status/1252785673981046786?s=20)
> 
> this is a mess and 100000% self-indulgent but also fic should be indulgent and i make what i want

There are some dreams best left unpursued. Z’ahir knows this more intimately than he does his best patrons. Things like diamonds are attainable, the sort of thing he asks for and is given without recourse, but love? Love is impossible. Unattainable. Not for someone like him.

And then… then there is the stage! The stage and all its lights and excitement and a crowd that would cheer for him! A dream he can barely brush his fingers against when he reaches as far as he dares, but so much closer than love. He could have it if he works hard enough. A dream that would let him fly away from the life he’s been living… it’s everything he wants all wrapped into one. It would be  _ perfect.  _ Even the nighttime air can’t clear his head. 

The stars look down on him like spectators when he entertains a fancy to sing an old song he had heard once before on a radio show. His voice is too loud in the silence of the night, but there are none nearby who could chance upon overhearing. 

“Ah… excuse me?”

Or, rather, there  _ should  _ be no one nearby. Z’ahir startles, feeling like an entire bottle of champagne has been upended over his head, and nearly trips over the hem of his gown in his haste to turn around. 

There, unkempt as always, is Farai─one of Aadhira’s ridiculous Bohemian friends, a supposedly starving writer who somehow still owned a decent enough suit. He seems sheepish which seems both appropriate and frustrating when coming from a man who snuck into Z’ahir’s room-of-sorts (read: large metal elephant). “Evening,” he greets. “I had, ah… seen you across the way. From my apartment.”

“For gods’ sake! You gave me a fright,” Z’ahir snaps. “What on earth are you doing here?” He stands a few paces away, arms crossed from both the cold and discomfort. 

“I wanted to thank you.”

He blinks. “What?”

“For helping me get a job,” Farai clarifies. He smiles, a little nervous and a lot charming, and fiddles with his cufflinks. He seems out of place, a foreign writer whose values consist of love above nearly all else standing under the pavilion atop the Moulin Rouge’s Elephant. He doesn’t fit in. His nervousness does not become him. He fumbles for words, red eyes focused on the floor and not Z’ahir’s face when he says, "Before, when we were─ah, this is mortifying. When you thought I was the duke, you said you... you loved me. I wondered if─"

Z’ahir laughs, cutting him off. "That was an act."

"Oh." Farai does not quite deflate, but it is a near thing (and maybe mildly funny considering that he is quite tall)

"You don't sound all that surprised."

"It's your job,” he replies, “but I... it just felt  _ real." _

"Farai, darling,” Z’ahir says, sweeping closer to place a hand on his cheek, “I am a courtesan. My job is to make men believe what they want to believe. I get paid for it."

Farai laughs and it rings hollow. His voice is tinged with disappointment when he says, "As you say. Silly of me to think otherwise, that you'd fall in love with me."

It feels nearly disambiguous to say, "I can't fall in love.”

"Can't fall in love?" Farai asks. His brows furrow. 

Z’ahir steps away from him and replies, "You have ears, don't you?" He looks at anything other than Farai’s nearly heartbroken expression, back turns towards him. 

"But a life without love, that's terrible!"

Z’ahir scoffs. He forgets to take the bits from his words when he says, "Being on the  _ street, _ that's terrible."

"No!” Farai cries, stepping in front of him again. “Love is like oxygen─"

Z’ahir takes a step back, squawking, "What?"

"─a many-splendored thing, love. It lifts us up to where we belong and─"

"Oh, don’t start that again,” he says, cutting Farai off for what is hopefully the last time. “I belong  _ here. _ "

Farai continues on with his idealistic view of love, much to his chagrin. It’s hilarious to hear him say things like "All you need is love!" while also having pushed so hard to get a job as a writer for Spectacular Spectacular. 

"A man has got to eat,” Z’ahir reminds.

“All you need is love,” Farai croons.

“He’d end up on the street.”

Farai skips from speaking to singing, leaning in like somehow Z’ahir will be bewitched by his attention (which he is not. Z’ahir is surrounded by beautiful and unprepossessing people every day), and sings, “All you need is  _ love!” _

“Love is just a  _ game,”  _ Z’ahir rebukes, turning away once more. 

It could be a show unto itself, how hard Farai tries to get his attention and make his point. He sings of love, of how he was  _ made  _ to love him, and it’s not all too difficult to use routine to shut him down with every other turn of phrase. 

Z’ahir almost wishes he didn’t have to remind Farai what type of establishment he is at. What a romantic like him is doing within Paris is easy enough to understand, but coming back to the Moulin Rouge to  _ thank him  _ for helping him get a job? Unprecedented. The words he wants to say stick and come out wrong, more an offer than a banishment. “The only way of loving me, baby, is to pay a lovely fee.” 

He flips his hair back over his shoulder and walks away, coming up short when Farai pops up in front of him, smiling disarmingly. “Just one night. Please, just one night!”

“There’s no way ‘cause you can’t pay,” he points out, giving Farai a once-over as if to prove his point. 

They continue their exchange, pacing about the little pavilion as Z’ahir begins to actually think about love. About the possibility of it. About… perhaps… having it. 

He cuts himself off from that dream with a sharp response to Farai’s continued cajoling. “You  _ crazy  _ fool, I won’t give into you.” It is nearly as much for himself as it is for Farai. He can’t have love. Can’t dream of it. 

(His love is for the highest bidder. It is a business transaction, surface-level and easy to fake.)

Farai calls after him as he walks away.  _ “Don’t _ leave me this way.”

Z’ahir stops, turning around with an amused smile. He asks, “Or what?”

“I can’t survive.”

He laughs, covering his mouth with a hand at the outburst. Farai smiles at him  _ again _ and maybe he wants to smile back just a little. He crushes the feeling down into the depths of his heart. Being sweet on an impoverished writer will not get him his dream. Hells, it wouldn’t even get him  _ dinner.  _

When Farai sings to him, it makes his heart do little flips. The strange acrobatics are nearly unintelligible, had he not read many a script about maidens and young love (and, perhaps, the less naive act that results from it more often than not). He finds himself responding  _ honestly,  _ even if it’s in fits and starts. 

He almost doesn’t realize how quickly he’s falling in love because it’s never even  _ happened _ before. Not even an entire ten minutes have passed since Farai effectively trespassed to thank him for the job and he… he’s in love. He’s honest-to-gods in love. 

This is a problem. This needs to  _ stop. _

“You’re going to be bad for business,” he says instead. “I can tell.”

Farai leans in, a vision made of midnight skin and a rumpled dress shirt, and kisses him. 

**Author's Note:**

> satine's red gown is nice and i think ahir deserves nice things like comments, kudos, and diamonds  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/khirimochi)  
> [Tunglr](https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com/)


End file.
